


Convince Me

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Branding, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drowning, Hand Feeding, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape, Slavery, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Spin off of "Deal with a Devil." Raphael is an angel who has agreed to submit to one year of slavery in Hell each century in exchange for Abaddon leaving the humans under his protection unharmed. Sleep deprived and starving, Raphael is unable to heal himself as efficiently as he ought to. He pleads with the demon to feed him. Abaddon may be convinced, if Raphael is on his absolute best behavior.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26
Collections: anonymous, r/Darkfics Monthly Prompt Challenge





	Convince Me

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Written for the Darkfics Subreddit January prompt challenge. Words provided were Fuel and Convince. Spin-off of my wing whump fic, Deal with a Devil (https://archiveofourown.org/works/28602066), but you don't need to read one to understand the other. No real plot, just straight up torture. Take the tags seriously. Hope you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated

Abaddon crouches before his captive, fingers deceptively light and gentle as he removes the pronged bit of metal from his collar. He sets it aside and grips Raphael’s chin, tilting his head back to inspect the two wounds from when sleep had nearly claimed him and his head had started to hang forward. He brushes his thumb over them and tuts, “You should know better than that, pet.”

Raphael does. But he’s so tired. He’s not been allowed to sleep for days and the effort of trying to heal himself is a perpetual drain on what little energy he has. He doesn’t answer, but the demon doesn’t seem to mind. Instead he reaches up to untie the ropes bending the angel’s hands above his head. He takes hold of his wrists, inspecting raw, chafed skin.

“See,” he purrs as his captive slumps back against the wall, exhausted. “This is why you don’t sleep. Rested, you heal so quickly, and you look so pretty this way.” He releases Raphael’s hands and gives him a light pat on the cheek. “Now, up.”

Bleary-eyed, Raphael looks at him for a moment, letting out a disbelieving huff. And yet, he knows better than to hesitate for too long. Aching shoulders scream as he reaches up, fingers grasping at the ring above his head to try to use it for a little extra leverage to drag himself to his feet. He half hopes his captor will grow tired of watching him struggle and lift him off the ground himself, but for now Abaddon seems perfectly content to observe.

He steps back, green eyes raking over the battered form of his prisoner.

It’s slow and painful, but the angel manages to rise. He leans against the wall, not yet trusting his legs. He pleads, “Please. At least let me eat.” He’s so tired. And he’s _starving_. He would heal so much better if his body had _anything_ —either sleep or food—to fuel it.

Abaddon doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he moves towards the center of the room, beside the bed. “Come here.”

Gritting his teeth, Raphael obeys, taking his first, unsteady step. His master is at least generous enough to allow him to brace himself against the bedframe as he comes to stand before him.

“You’re being awfully greedy, don’t you think?” He circles around the angel, taking in the sight of him. “You’ve gone without longer than this.” His shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “And besides, you don’t _need_ it. I’ve yet to hear of an angel dying of starvation.”

“Please.”

He tenses as a hand rests on his shoulder and then moves down his back. He bites down hard on his tongue to stifle a pained hiss as fingers probe at welts and gashes left from the previous day’s lashing. “Besides, you’re healing well enough. Another day or so, and I imagine these will all be gone.”

He runs a hand along Raphael’s side, feeling the outline of his ribs. “Still, I suppose you _are_ a bit boney, aren’t you?” He continues to assess his captive not much differently than one might examine livestock for sale. Except he’s not interested in the strength of the angel’s muscles, or anything so mundane as that. What he cares about is where the pain lingers—which touches might elicit a gasp of pain or make his pet wince. “Perhaps…”

He lifts Raphael’s chin so blue eyes meet his own. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll consider it, _if_ you can be a very good boy for me. If you want a treat, convince me you deserve it.”

Abaddon smirks as Raphael’s face sags in defeat.

“This can end any time you like, pet,” he reminds him. “Would you like to go free? Hm?”

“No.”

“What was that? I don’t think I heard you.”

Raphael swallows thickly. “No,” he repeats. “I want to stay.” Better for Abaddon to use Raphael to sate his hunger for cruel pleasure than unleash it on the world above. He will suffer, if need be, to spare his flock the same.

“Of course you do.” His nose wrinkles a little as he scrutinizes the dried blood crusted on his captive’s skin. “Come, I think it’s time for a bath, hm?” He effortlessly swipes Raphael’s legs out from under him and scoops him up. The angel squirms a little and Abaddon tuts, “Now, now. No fussing. Best behavior, yes?”

The walk to the adjoining bathroom is quite short and the large, marble tub is already filled with water. When Abaddon dumps him in, Raphael finds the water frigid. Abaddon perches on the edge of the tub and reaches for a washcloth. “Are your wings back yet?” His tone is light and conversational, and Raphael hates it.

“No.”

“Are you sure? If I find you’re lying, I’ll be very unhappy.” He pushes the angel forward to wash his back, inspecting the scarring where the joint of his wings had once connected.

Raphael pulls his knees to his chest, shivering against the cold. “It takes time,” he says quietly. Abaddon should know that much, at least. They’ve done this enough times. “And more strength than I have right now.”

“I’m hearing an awful lot of complaining today,” the demon scolds. He pushes on Raphael’s thigh. The angel grimaces and moves his legs, allowing Abaddon access to his torso. He hates how gentle the demon’s touch is as the cloth wipes away the accumulation of blood and grime from days—weeks? Raphael doesn’t even know anymore—of torture. Yet, he doesn’t resist. “Besides, are you really in such a rush? You’re not allowed to keep them, you know.”

Abaddon sets the washcloth aside and runs his fingers through thick, black hair. Raphael tenses, but he knows better than to pull away. Fingers curl to grasp him by the hair and Abaddon gives a firm shove, plunging his head beneath the water.

He gives an amused hum as Raphael begins to thrash, struggling furiously to get his head above the surface. Arms flail and his head tosses, but the demon’s grip remains firm. The angel doesn’t surface until Abaddon pulls him back up. He coughs and splutters, gasping desperately for air. “How did you die, again?”

Raphael trembles, although perhaps it is no longer merely from the cold. He doesn’t answer—he can’t. His chest still heaves as he tries to catch his breath.

“Tuberculosis, wasn’t it?”

Still no answer.

“Painful, no? I hear it feels an awful lot like drowning, when the lungs finally deteriorate. Is that so?”

Raphael just coughs.

“Don’t remember? Pity.”

“No! Please—”

The protest is silenced as his head is once again forced under the water. Abaddon holds him under longer this time. His lungs burn and blackness hovers at the edge of his vision. His lips part and he inhales a gulp of dirty water before he is pulled back up. His chest heaves as he coughs up bathwater. He grips the edge of the tub and tries to clamber out, but the demon grips his shoulders to hold him in place.

“Did I say you could get out?” He pets his angel’s hair. “What do you think? Is this what it felt like to die,” he coos.

Raphael nods.

“I can’t hear you. I suppose if you’d like, we can try again? See if that jogs your memory, hmm?”

“Yes!” he wheezes, breathless. “I… Yes. It… It felt like drowning. Please…”

“And I suppose that’s why you don’t like water?”

“Yes.”

It’s hardly new information. They’d known each other for centuries, and it hadn’t take long at all for Abaddon to realize his pet was afraid of being submerged. He’d also learned quickly that Raphael doesn’t much care to talk about his own death, no matter how long ago it had been, and so he picks at it to keep the wound fresh and raw.

“And who was with you? Surely there was someone, no? To comfort you as you took those last, painful breaths?”

“No one.” He stares into the water, unable to meet his captor’s gaze. “I was alone.” A hum prompts him to continue. “It was days before anyone found my body. It’s why I dedicated myself to healing. I didn’t… I don’t want anyone to suffer like that. Not alone.” He couldn’t save everyone, but he did the best he could. And he tried to at least offer comfort to those he couldn’t. No one should have to die alone.

“And all those mortals you’ve healed, do you think they care? A whole year you’re to be down here, and do you imagine any of them will even notice you’re gone?”

“No.” It’s by design. He spends his life moving from place to place, doing his best to remain as anonymous as he can. It’s better that way, that when he can provide a miracle no one knows where it came from. That way when his strength fails and he can’t do it, they also don’t have a face to blame.

“Hmm. As uncared for in death as you were in life, then? An impressive feat, to have become so completely insignificant to everyone, no?” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Raphael’s head. “Not to worry, pet. _I_ care. I miss you when you’re not here. That’s the real reason you want to stay, isn’t it?” His lips brush against the angel’s ear as he speaks. “If not for me, you’d have no one. You’d never know what it is to be loved.”

Is this love? Raphael doesn’t think so, not that he’s had much experience with the matter. Either way, he doesn’t have it in him to argue. His only answer is silence.

Abaddon stands and sets a towel beside the bath. Finally, he’ll allow his captive out of the frigid water. “Dry yourself off, pet, and put the towel in the hamper.”

“Thank you,” he says softly, climbing out of the tub.

“You really are hungry, aren’t you,” he muses as his pet obeys without complaint, and even remembers to mind his manners. “Fetch a brush and then come find me.” Abaddon returns to the bedroom, sitting on the couch to wait for his angel. He takes in the sight of his limping form—the bruising of his knees, and the way his shoulders sag in resignation.

Beautiful.

Wordlessly, Raphael hands over the hairbrush and drops to his knees between Abaddon’s legs.

“Sit.”

“Thank you.” He shifts, grateful to be off his knees.

Abaddon pushes his head so it rests against his thigh as he begins to brush Raphael’s hair. “It’s growing out,” he remarks. “I think soon it will be long enough to braid.”

Raphael grimaces. He hates long hair. As soon as the year is up and he returns to earth, he’ll chop it all off. Still, he doesn’t complain—it wouldn’t do any good, anyway. And it’s not the worst thing, really. Better this than whatever else his captor may have planned for him, and yet the gentle fingers carding through his hair and the brush ever so carefully teasing out the tangles grates on him. He hates it, but he hates it less than most other things.

“I’d like to beat you,” Abaddon says, as if merely thinking aloud. “But perhaps tomorrow, hmm?

I have some new branding irons I want to try. They were made just with you in mind.”

Raphael’s jaw tightens and he closes his eyes. “Please…”

“If you’d like to eat, you’ll lay nice and still for me. You can do that, can’t you, pet?” The brush continues to work its way through dark hair and his tone is perfectly light—jovial, even. “Or perhaps you’d like to be tied down, hm? I suppose I’ll allow it, if you can ask nicely.”

Raphael exhales heavily. He wants to protest—Abaddon can see it in the lines of tension across his back and the way his head hangs. His pet is so, wonderfully easy to read. And yet he knows if he wants any respite, he must submit. And so he says haltingly, “Yes. I… I’d like to be tied down. Please.”

“Go to the closet and bring me some rope. And why don’t you fetch the irons, too, hm? I think you’ll know the ones I want.”

He sees them immediately. They’re massive, large enough to span from his shoulder down to his hip. The pattern will span nearly his entire back. Wings. His brow creases and he looks back to Abaddon, pleading. But the demon simply beckons for him. “Now, be a good boy and set the irons by the fireplace, and then lay by the bed.”

Raphael’s steps are slow, but the demon doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, the anticipation will only made it worse for his captive. He cheerfully conjures hellfire to burn in the hearth and heat the large pieces of metal. While they come to temperature, he crouches in front of his victim, holding out a hand. “Wrists, pet.”

The angel hesitates, but offers his hands to be bound. Abaddon ties them nice and tight, and then fastens them to the foot of the bed. He pauses for a moment, stroking Raphael’s hair, before standing and walking away.

Raphael hears the closet door open again and grimaces. Nothing good ever comes from that. It’s followed by the scraping of furniture across the floor. Leather cuffs tighten around his ankles, and then Abaddon fixes a bar to one. Humming cheerfully, he slides it behind the foot of the couch and then attaches it to the angel’s other ankle. Raphael is stretched taut, wrists bound to the bed and the weight of the couch against the bar holding his feet in place.

“Ready, pet?”

He ignores his captive as he shakes his head. Instead, he wanders to the hearth, where the irons have been heating. First, he grabs the handle for the right wing. He stands over Raphael for a moment, carefully considering the placement of it, before pressing searing metal against flesh. A shiver of delight runs down his spine as Raphael screams and strains against the restraints. “Such a fuss,” he tuts as he removes the branding iron. “All for a few seconds.”

Raphael pants and trembles. He crouches, inspecting the burn wound. “It should scar nicely,” he muses. “For a few days, anyway. Perhaps I’ll reapply them when they fade, hm?” Abaddon fetches the left wing, his captive whimpering in anticipation as he once again contemplates the proper placement of the mark. Raphael gives another agonized wail as metal burns flesh. His stomach churns against the stench of burning skin—he’d likely vomit were there anything there to be expelled. He heaves, but brings up nothing.

“It’s really your own fault, you know,” he says as he sets the iron aside. “You suffer so beautifully. Otherwise I’d have tired of you centuries ago.” The way his captive’s face screws up in pain, and the exhausted lines when there’s a momentary respite, is just so pretty. “You know what I want next, yes?”

“No,” the angel whines. He strains against the restraints, but Raphael is weak and Abaddon isn’t terribly worried.

“You don’t know?”

“Don’t. Please.”

“Are you not still hungry,” he purrs, a finger slipping between Raphael’s ass cheeks. “You’ve been so good today. Do you really want to ruin it now?”

He cries out as a single finger enters dry. His muscles clench against the intrusion while Abaddon simply tuts, “You should know better than that. It’s only going to make it harder for you.” He doesn’t seem at all bothered by Raphael’s attempts to squirm as he takes his time moving the digit in and out. “Now. Are you going to behave?”

The only answer is a miserable sob.

He leans over the angel’s prone form. Two fingers press against Raphael’s lips. He swallows thickly. Abaddon can see the conflict in his eyes—he doesn’t want to obey the unspoken command, yet he knows refusal isn’t going to stop the demon from taking what he wants. He licks his lips, and then he opens his mouth, sucking the demon’s fingers.

He screws his eyes shut and bites down hard on his lip to muffle another sob as both fingers enter him, scissoring and stretching him in preparation. Slick with saliva, they go in easier than the first had dry, but that almost makes it worse. He clenches his fists, trying in vain to ignore what’s being done to him.

Abaddon doesn’t seem inclined to rush. He withdraws his fingers and sets back for a moment. He taps the cuff on Raphael’s right ankle. “I want to remove this.” First, he unhooks the bar forcing the angel’s legs apart from the cuff, and then he undoes the buckle. “Don’t fight me, pet. I want you to behave and lay still for me, understand?” Raphael doesn’t answer, but that’s fine. He trusts his pet will obey. And if he doesn’t? Still bound to the foot of the bed he won’t be difficult to subdue. He removes the left cuff as well and returns the restraints to the closet. Furniture once again scrapes against the floor as the couch is returned to its original place, no longer necessary to hold the angel in position.

Even without his master’s hands on him, Raphael remains tense. It’s just a momentary delay, he knows, before the inevitable violation occurs. He wants to retch—every instinct screams at him to close his legs to keep the demon out, and yet he knows he can’t. It’s pointless, and Abaddon will only use even that small defiance as an excuse for punishment. So he remains as he’s been left, lying flat with his legs spread wide in offering.

He doesn’t resist as his master grabs his hips and maneuvers him into a better position. Submit, and then it will be over faster. Behind him, Abaddon unbuttons his pants. He can’t quite stifle a pitiful whimper as he feels the head of the demon’s cock against his hole. Abaddon thrusts hard and fast, pulling pained cries from his captive.

Raphael shifts his hips as much as he is able while Abaddon holds him in place. Bruising fingers pinch him. “I told you,” his master grunts between thrusts, “to be still.”

Tears slide down his cheeks and he tastes blood as he bites down harder on his lip.

His master becomes more aggressive still. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want me? Hm?”

Raphael shakes his head.

“No? You don’t want to please me?”

He can no longer stifle the sobs. Raphael weeps openly, and yet he doesn’t try to squirm away. His body sags in relief as his master climaxes with a satisfied grunt, finally releasing him from his grasp. Abaddon pulls out and gives a firm smack on the ass. “Enough dramatics, pet.” He huffs and rolls his eyes, as if the angel is just a petulant child when Raphael is unable to stem the flow of tears. “I’ll give you some time to calm yourself down, hm? And then perhaps you’ve earned a treat.”

Raphael moves to curl in on himself as much as he can, but another slap on the ass puts a stop to it. “Did I say you could move?” It’s the first and only warning he’ll give. He buttons his pants, and then he circles around his captive, crouching in front of him. He tousles the angel’s hair and then unbinds his hands, confident he’ll remain on the floor, where he belongs, until told otherwise.

Everything aches, and he’s so tired. He just wants to close his eyes and succumb to the blissful void, and yet he fights the urge. If his master returns to find him asleep, he’ll be angry. Raphael has already suffered enough without incurring still more of the demon’s wrath. He forces himself to remain conscious, unable to do anything save weep until he has no more tears left to shed.

When he returns, the demon barely spares him a glance. He strides past the angel and situates himself comfortably on the couch, a plate of roast chicken and bread balanced upon his lap.

The savory scent of chicken fills the room. It makes Raphael ill, and yet his stomach clenches painfully in hunger. The click of fingers snapping calls him off the floor. Painfully, he crosses the room and comes to kneel at his master’s feet.

It takes every ounce of restraint he possesses not to flinch away as the demon pets him and coos, “That’s a good pet.”

Red-rimmed eyes are on the floor. Raphael’s fingers twitch and he just wants to wrap his arms around himself to hide, but he knows better. He even stays still as fingers gently trace the burns on his shoulder blades. Raphael stays still and endures with little more than an anguished gasp until his master tires of touching him. Finally, Abaddon rips off a small piece of bread and presses it to Raphael’s lips.

He accepts the offering from Abaddon’s fingers like a well-trained dog. Next, he’s offered a small piece of chicken, which he likewise takes. However, rather than allowing him another bite just yet, gravy covered fingers linger by his lips. Blue eyes flick up to his master, who arches an expectant eyebrow. Too tired to argue, Raphael exhales a sigh before licking his fingers clean.

Raphael is given only the smallest of bites and the process drags, a long and miserable exercise in humiliation, as if he had not already been stripped of the last vestiges of his pride. No longer accustomed to meals, it doesn’t take much for him to feel uncomfortably full. He turns his head away as another bite is pressed insistently against his lips—he doesn’t want anymore.

“Don’t be ungrateful, pet.”

His master grips his hair and tugs his head back, forcing Raphael to look up at him. “You asked for this, and you will finish. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he rasps.

Uncomfortably full soon becomes painfully so. His stomach aches and he doesn’t know how much more he can manage before it makes him sick. And yet he tries to refuse just once more and the clearing of his master’s throat is enough to prompt him to accept every bite offered and lap each bit of gravy from the demon’s finger’s. Raphael’s face is a sickly pale by the time he’s finished and he lists, leaning against his master’s leg, too lethargic and ill to keep himself upright any longer. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, trying his best to ignore the nausea.

And yet, miserable as he is, he remembers to say, “Thank you.”

Abaddon stands abruptly, watching in amusement as the sudden movement knocks his pet off balance and sends him sprawling to the floor. He very generously stoops down and scoops him up. “Come, now. I have business to attend to, so let’s get you settled for the night, hm?” He carries the angel over to the wall just to the left of the bed. He’s at least kind enough to situate him so he can sit rather than kneel. A length of rope loops through the ring of his collar and is fastened to the ring on the wall, short enough that he will not be able to lay down.

At least it’s not his wrists. Abaddon binds his wrists behind his back rather than stretched above his head as he does most nights. He will be uncomfortable, but under less stress than he might have been had his master not been so generous. And yet he still won’t be permitted to sleep. Abaddon tilts his chin back, fastening forked metal to the collar, sharp prongs positioned against his sternum and beneath his chin, poised to stab him should he try to lower his head.

He traces a thumb over tracks of tears. “Don’t cry. We’ll have more fun later.” Abaddon grips his chin and leans forward, claiming the angel’s lips in a bruising, possessive kiss before leaving Raphael to suffer in solitude.


End file.
